"What is it, George? Why don't you tell us?" my mother asked quickly. And, to my surprise, her hand, in which mine was resting, was as cold as ice, notwithstanding the August heat. He raised himself in his stirrups and shouted so that all might hear: "Squire Ravenor be come to life again! They 'a' found him on an island in the Pacific, close against the coral reef where his yacht went down six years ago! He's on his way home again, lads. Think of that! Sal, lass, bring us up a gallon of ale and another after it. We'll drink to his homecoming, lads!" There was a burst of applause and many exclamations of wonder. My mother's hand had moved, as though unconsciously, to my shoulder, and she was leaning heavily upon me. "Where did you hear this, George?" she asked, in a subdued tone. "Why, it be in all the London papers this morning," he answered, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. "The steamer that's bringing him home 'a' sent a message from some foreign port, and Lawyer Cox he's got one, and it's all written up large on the walls of the Corn Exchange. I reckon it'll make those deuced lawyers sit up!" chuckled my father, as he slowly dismounted. "Lord-a-mercy! Only to think on it! Six year on a little bit o' an island, and not a living soul to speak a word to! And now he's on his way home again. It beats all story-telling I ever heerd on. Why, Alice, lass, it 'a' quite upset you," he added, looking anxiously at my mother. "You're all white and scared-like. Dost feel badly?" She was standing with her back to us and when she turned round it seemed to me that a change had crept into her face. "It is the heat and excitement," she said quietly. "This is strange news. I think that I will go in and rest." "All right, lass! Get thee indoors and lie down for a bit. Now, then, lads. Hurrah for the squire and long life to him! Pour it out, Jim--pour it out! Don't be afraid on it. Such news as this don't coom every day." And, with the vision of my stalwart yeoman father, the centre of a little group of farm-labourers, holding his foaming glass high above his head, and his honest face ruddy with heat and excitement, my memories of this scene grow dim and fade away. CHAPTER II. MR. FRANCIS. I was alone with my father in the kitchen, and he was looking as I had never seen him look before. It was late in the afternoon--as near as I can remember, about six weeks after the news had reached us of Mr. Ravenor's wonderful adventures. He had just come in for tea, flushed with toil and labouring in the hot sun. But as he stood on the flags before me, reading a letter which had been sent up from the village, the glow seemed to die out from his face and his strong, rough hands trembled. "It's a lie!" I heard him mutter to himself, in a hoarse whisper--"a wicked lie!" Then he sank back in one of the high-backed chairs and I watched him, frightened.